Ourboros
by fairy tale echo
Summary: The ouroboros has several meanings interwoven into it. Foremost is the symbolism of the serpent devouring its own tail. This symbolises the cyclic nature of the universe: creation out of destruction. [scenecoda for 3x19: Memoria. CLex]


Every time you slide back into the present moment, there's the shortest of seconds where everything seems more real than ever before, when your physical sensations are heightened to an almost painful level. When you snap back this time, you can not only feel the hard, wood grain of the railing in the Kent Barn, but you can practically hear the unspoken pieces of your life clicking into place.

_I didn't kill Julian_.

You always knew this but now you can accept it.

You hear Clark's voice from behind you and when you turn slowly to face him, he is again the boy you opened your eyes and saw on a riverbank. His face is open and honest when he asks you what's wrong.

_Open, honest, Clark_, three words that most certainly don't go together. But for the briefest flash, it's there. Concern for you. Can you imagine? A teenage farmboy thinks he should be concerned about _you_!

Yet there it is, blossoming in his unguarded face and it's as rough around the edges as the railing you were just clinging to.

He says your name. He wants to know if you're OK. Can you imagine?

It is in your mind to tell him you are fine, to answer his lies with more lies, to walk away.

And yet you do none of this.

Maybe it's the way he's looking at you. Maybe it's the way he'd pleaded with you to stop treatment, a lump in his throat. Maybe it is simply that accepting one truth makes it easier to face other.

"I didn't kill my brother Julian," your voice is strangely monotonous and it certainly doesn't match the incredulous look of panic that sweeps over Clark's face. He probably thinks you've gone around the bend again.

"Hey, come on," he steps cautiously towards you. "I know you didn't, it's just, it wasn't anyone's fault, nature does, you can't blame, I know you didn't,"

"My mother killed him. She held a pillow over his face. I saw her," there it is again, that monotone. "She was depressed. My father, my father,"

Clark changes colors so quickly you wonder if you should add it to the list of unexplained Clark-Kent-phenomenon. He is chalky white then suddenly red. He wobbles and looks sickly. "Oh my God," his voice is a thin whisper.

"My father has always thought I did it. I let him think that. Because she was my mother, Clark.

Do people still swoon? Because it looks like Clark is about to swoon. He's gone chalky white again and you are suddenly worried that he is about to vomit all over your very expensive shoes.

"Jesus. Christ," he mutters weakly, staring at you with naked grief.

You can tell that each word causes him pain. Well, congratulations, you've finally managed to shock Clark Kent so badly he can't even come up with a clever lie.

"That's what the treatment helped me recover, you see. Information that I need to, to, go on with my life, Clark. And there's more, buried in here," you tap your head lightly. "I just know it. That's what I was trying to get at."

"I was just worried that something might happen to you. Your father told me,"

Ah, there it is. He'd gone to _your father_ instead of _you_. That's what it had come down to, this angel boy, who'd taken you in and saved your life more times than you could count, he'd _gone to your father. _How were you supposed to ignore that? The lies, so many lies, sure, all right, but to go to _your father_? It was practically criminal.

"Never listen to my father Clark, I thought that was at least one lesson you'd learned by now," your voice is sharp and it cuts him off easily.

He's eyeing you now with some mix of apologia, regret, and pity. You are sure this is because his insides are being tossed around as intensely as yours, from one emotion to another, quicker than an eye can blink.

"I didn't kill Julian."

It bears repeating, you think, after all this years of keeping it locked inside.

His face softens then, another wave of emotion, and he looks almost tender when he tells you, "I know. I know. I never would have thought,"

"You owe me a secret now."

_Just ask._

His eyes are as wide as saucers and he's chalky white again. "I told you something I've never said out-loud, ever, Clark. Because I trust you. I know you trust me. I saw it when you asked for my help."

Against your will, your mind zips you back to the labs, you can hear electricity whizzing above your head, snapping to the rhythm that is sending your heart into your chest. Clark is in your arms, _Clark is in your arms_, shuddering weakly. You'd thought, _"The last time we were wet together like this, he'd saved me._"

And now, standing here in the barn, you wonder if things have come full-circle. He saved you, you saved him; water, water everywhere. Could this be another chance, a new beginning, have the two of you become _Ouroboros_?

"You owe me a secret now," you repeat.

"Your car hit me that day on the bridge," he never takes his eyes off you, so you see the panic that filters through them.

It seems, now, so familiar, you remember standing over your brother's crib: panic, you remember the day in the cornfield: panic, you remember standing by your mother's bed: panic. The fearful whisper in your ear that came with it every time: _no one loves you, no one knows you, no one is like you, you're nothing, alone, weird, different,** freaky**._ Panic. And then you know. Why he hasn't told. Panic.

Still, you are unprepared and so is he, his mouth becomes a perfect O and he steps away from you.

There it is, raw in front of both of you: the truth.

He's waiting, you see, with fear and something that looks very close to relief. Just to have told, to not be responsible for it alone anymore. Because after all, telling a truth is merely sharing its' burden. You imagine what he must be feeling, air rushing back into his lungs at last.

"I owe you a secret now," you say "fair is fair."

He nods with trepidation.

"I think I've wanted to kiss you since I first met you."

You are not surprised at how truthful this statement is, but you are surprised at how easily it comes out.

And there is no more panic or trepidation or apologia on Clark's face now, there's just what you might call the beginning of a smile.

"My turn, then. I think you have too."

And then he's crossed the short distance between the two of you and has you wrapped up in his arms. Well, to be fair, you help a little with the wrapping up part. He's squeezing you tightly and you know that at any minute you'll find yourself . . .

In all your daydreams he tastes like hay, but with the first wet slide of his tongue into your mouth you can't begin to label the thousands of tastes springing up inside you or name the feelings bouncing around in your body.

_joy honey release relief sky gingersnaps joy._

He breaks away from the kiss at least three years too soon for your liking. Then he whispers in your ear, "I've wanted to kiss you since I first met you too."

He laughs, he actually laughs, and tells you with a smile, "Now it's your turn, Lex."

And you know you've got a lifetime to tell the truth.


End file.
